


Let It Be

by LunaPadma



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Beatles - Freeform, Crazy Chris, F/M, Happy Ending, I don't even care that this pairing isn't popular anymore, sort of spiraled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6679336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaPadma/pseuds/LunaPadma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chris Rodriguez finds himself in times of incredible insanity, Mother Mary comes to him....</p>
<p>Or, at least, that's how he processes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Be

My mom was a good Catholic. She went to church every week and prayed to various saints for my soul, because my father was _el diablo_. She liked _Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_ the best, because she said that a mother would always aid another mother and could not resist helping a child in need of guidance. And besides, _La Virgen de Guadalupe_ was the Mexican Mary. She was _ours_ , in the same way that the Irish had St. Patrick or the English had St. George.

She used to play old Beatles songs when she cleaned, humming off-key. I can’t remember what her favorite one was.

She’s dead now, same as everyone I know. Or maybe I’m the dead one. I think I might be in Hell. Or, I was in Hell and now I’m not. I don’t know anymore.

It’s darker now, smaller. Quiet. The walls don’t move, change. Hell’s not dark. It’s not consistent. It’s not quiet. Hell changes on you faster than you can blink, it throws devils you haven’t got a name for at you, it tries to kill you in bloody, glory-drenched ways in front of thousands of screaming fans, _the Christians to the lions!_ The dark bits are the safe bits in Hell, because you can’t see everything spinning around you, moving and changing and tormenting.

Hell’s different because _Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_ didn’t visit me in Hell. Or she found me in Hell or maybe I found her outside of Hell but she’s here now. She’s always here. She brings me communion every day, the body and blood of her son Jesus to cleanse my sins, but maybe I have too many sins because it no longer soothes my body and soul the way it’s supposed to, the way it did when I was a kid. It turns to ash in my mouth and it chokes me and _Nuestra Señora_ —I call her Mary—she looks so sad when I have to refuse communion again and again.

I’ve been in Hell, betrayed everyone I’ve ever loved. How can Jesus Christ accept Judas Iscariot back into his heart?

Sometimes, when Mary’s not there, it feels like I’m back in Hell. But Hell is real, Hell I know. _Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_ doesn’t waste her time trying to save little traitor boys. The grace of God doesn’t pluck them from Hell. She’s not real, just an illusion. There’s no point in fighting Hell anymore.

Then one day, I am visited by a new saint. He’s short, red-faced, with curly black hair and purplish eyes. This one, I immediately recognize. “You’re Jude,” I say, as if I am taking a test. “Patron of lost causes.”

Jude laughs harshly. “You’re a lost cause all right, boy. But Claire Leroux will be happy to know it’s religious. She thought Mary was some traitor girlfriend of yours.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about and I say as much.

“You called me St. Jude, but maybe I’m St. Anthony. You’ve lost your mind, Christopher Rodriguez, and I’m here to bring it back.”

He raises his pudgy finger and presses it against my forehead. The world goes black.

When I wake up, I realize three things immediately. One, I am lying in a bed in the Camp Half-Blood infirmary. Two, I am so hungry, the cabinets are starting to resemble graham crackers. And three, I’m sobbing.

It takes a while to deal with the third one, so I’m still pondering whether or not the Apollo kids still keep Clif bars on the top shelves and if I have the energy to get them when Clarisse La Rue walks in.

I should have noticed the hesitancy in her walk, but I’m focused on the way she’s carrying what look like brownies and a Diet Coke in a glass with a straw. As if it senses her arrival, my stomach makes a noise that makes it clear that I recently swallowed a hellhound puppy and it wants out.

Clarisse tries to smile, but it’s uncomfortable and sad. “Chris? How—how are you feeling?”

I want to say “hungry” or “fine” or “sane,” but then I remember that she—Mary used to say that every time she visited me when I was…crazy. When I was crazy. “Mary?” Is Clarisse La Rue, the mean girl I used to train with, who kissed me once during a game of Capture the Flag, my _Señora de Guadalupe_?

Clarisse’s face falls. She looks like she’s about to cry, and Clarisse La Rue doesn’t cry. Ever. I once accidentally broke her femur in a surprisingly-not-illegal wrestling moved I learned from a rerun of _American_ _Gladiators_ , and she just fractured my jaw with one punch and hobbled off to the infirmary.

“Should’ve known,” she mutters, softly enough that I could barely hear it. “Nothing in my life ever goes right.”

Oh, my gods. Clarisse La Rue is worried about me. She actually cares about me. I didn’t think she actually cared about anyone, except maybe her dad. Maybe I did have a chance with her when we were fourteen.

She walks over to me and holds the Diet Coke up to my mouth. It tastes like vanilla ice cream—but not in the shitty Vanilla Coke kind of way. It’s nectar, food of the gods. “Thank you, Clarisse,” I say. I don’t just mean for the nectar.

The cup slips from her hand and shatters on the floor. I don’t think Clarisse has ever dropped anything in her life. “Are you—are you back?” Clarisse asks awkwardly. “For real? Chiron said Dionysus—”

“He fixed me,” I say, equally as awkward. At least, I’m assuming that if Clarisse is my Mary, then Dionysus is my Jude. “I’m not crazy anymore. I don’t think.”

Now I really am worried that Clarisse might start crying. She sits on the edge of my bed and hands me a brownie—which I realize now is ambrosia. It tastes like my mother’s chicken flautas, and it may very well be the best thing I’ve ever had. I eat the entire thing in, like, two bites. Sure, I’m a little hot, but I’m also starving. Did they not feed me or something?

“How long was I…out?” I ask as I eye the ambrosia still on the plate. Can I risk another without imploding? Furthermore, if I did die, would it still be worth it?

“A few months. I found you in April, and it’s August now.”

Holy shit. Four months. I lost four months. Clarisse La Rue put up with crazy Chris for four months. I would have thought she’d have shot me by hour two. _I_ would have shot me by hour two. Clarisse La Rue, who sucker punched me in the gut when I told her I hated my father (who, for the record, I still don’t know), didn’t attack a confirmed traitor. The world has gone mad. Did somebody on Mount Olympus actually like me?

I decide to push my luck and inch my hand toward another square of ambrosia. Unfortunately, Clarisse hasn’t changed as much as I’d thought, because she slaps my hand away before I can get anywhere near the plate. “Don’t be stupid,” she says. “I’ll get you something else.”

As she stands, I ask, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

She spins around in surprise. “What do you mean? There’s a box of goldfish and some Fruit Rollups just over there.” She points at one of the cabinets. “You can get it yourself if you really want to.”

I knew it was a bad idea to let fourteen year olds stock the infirmary. Though I am a fan of Fruit Rollups. “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “Why did you...” Unable to find the right words, I gesture wildly. “I’m a traitor, Clarisse. I joined the Titans. Why would you do all this for me?”

Clarisse lunges, grabs me by the shirt, and kisses me for a long moment. Then she drops me back on the bed. “Any other stupid questions?” she asks gruffly.

Um, actually, yes. But the look in Clarisse’s eyes suggests that questions aren’t such a good idea right now. “Can we do that again?” I blurt out. Damn you, ADHD.

Clarisse makes a highly unflattering sound and walks over to the cabinet. She tosses a Fruit Rollup at me, and it hits me in the eye. My reflexes are not what they once were. “Let’s get out of here. I hate this place.”

Apparently, godly aid and some ambrosia don’t exactly help with the whole “muscle atrophy” thing. Would it have killed crazy Chris to do some lunges?  Clarisse laughs at my attempts to get out of bed, but offers me a shoulder to lean on as we walk outside.

Even with Clarisse pretty much carrying me, the amphitheater is pretty much my limit. I practically collapse on the first line of benches and tear into the Fruit Rollup like I’m a starving man—oh wait. I am a starving man. Clarisse laughs when I try to swallow the entire half-chewed mess and choke.

After I finally get the entire thing down, Clarisse starts talking. “How much do you remember?” she asks abruptly. “Of your madness?”

Is madness a better word than craziness? I don’t know. “Bits and pieces, I guess. Why?” Did I do anything stupid? Like, stupider than the whole Catholic thing?

Please tell me I’m not one of those crazies who strips naked and plays freeze tag on the highway with eighteen-wheelers.

“Do you remember who Mary is?” she asks.

Oh, gods. How do I explain that my delusions had painted Clarisse La Rue, favorite daughter of Ares and general all-around badass, as the Virgin Mary? “Oh.”

“It’s okay if you don’t,” she says quickly. “I was just…curious.”

Something St—Dionysus said comes back to me. Something about how Clarisse was hoping Mary wasn’t my ex. “No, I remember,” I say. I can’t make eye contact, so I stare directly at the unlit campfire ring. “I thought you were the Virgin Mary come to save me from Hell. Then I remembered that _Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_ doesn’t waste her time redeeming dead traitors. After that, I figured I was crazy and you were some illusion of my shattered mind. I just—I didn’t realize you were her until after.”

Clarisse, I notice out of the corner of my eye, is also staring at the campfire ring. She’s humming something I recognize instantly—my mom used to hum the same song just as poorly. It’s _Let it Be_ , by the Beatles.

The one that begins, “ _When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me.”_

It wasn’t my mom’s favorite—that honor belonged to _Imagine_ , which I know isn’t actually a Beatles song—but it was played on loop throughout my childhood. This actually helps to explain a lot. I had gone to Catholic schools on and off until I was about eleven, but I thought I had shaken off all that when the whole “Greek God” thing happened. But the music, that was constant.

“You used to pray,” Clarisse says suddenly. “In Spanish, when you were asleep. We didn’t know what it was at first, but you seemed to sleep better when I repeated it back to you.”

I actually do have some very faint memories of Mary praying over me. I’d thought it was a bit weird that she prayed the _Hail Mary_ , but, being crazy, I didn’t really dwell on it.

Maybe it’s better for my mental health that I don’t remember most of what happened when I lost it. I’d probably lose my mind all over again just from obsessing over it all. But I need to know what happened, where and why Clarisse found me. How I came back to Camp. Everything I missed.

“How did you even find me?” I ask. I don’t remember all that much about the Labyrinth, but I do remember some stops in Billings, Montana; Kalamazoo, Michigan; a little village in Kauai; and one particularly terrifying potty break at Mount Rushmore, which resulted in a $200 fine for public urination on Jefferson’s nose. I didn’t bother explaining I was trying to piss on Lincoln’s beard, but I couldn’t reach.

Looking back, I’m not sure why they didn’t arrest me for being up there in the first place.

But the point is, I could have been anywhere. Had I actually found the Camp Half-Blood entrance? Was someone on some recon mission when she found me? Was I in New York?

“It was in Phoenix, if you can believe it,” Clarisse says. To be perfectly honest, I can’t. Clarisse grew up in Phoenix, but she hates her mother with a passion. It makes sense, really. Clarisse has a very black and white view of the world, and her mother runs one of the biggest drug cartels in the Southwest.

You’d never guess it from looking at Madeleine La Rue. She’s practically the opposite of her daughter in every way. I’ve never met her, but I’ve seen pictures. She’s this tiny little Canadian woman, thin-boned with a classically pretty face. Her hair is the same blondish-brown color as Clarisse’s and her eyes are brown as well, but that’s really it. For the first few years I was at camp, I was utterly convinced she ran a yarn store. Everyone was. Until Sherman, Clarisse’s favorite brother, told me she was this huge name in the drug trade. 

“Why?” I ask.

“Chiron thought it would be best for me to, I don’t know, try living in the mortal world for a while. I agreed to try for a few months, so I left after Christmas. Told everyone I was on a secret mission. Then one Saturday in April, it was 104 outside, so I went for a run.”

“Of course you did,” I say dryly. Clarisse has this thing about training in extreme weather situations. I remember one winter, she and Sherman had this epic duel outside camp borders in a huge blizzard. It doesn’t surprise me that she likes to run in hundred-degree temperatures.

“I found you just outside the city limits. You were wearing full armor and kept asking me for string, and I brought you back to the house.”

Oh, gods. Ariadne’s String. They probably have it by now. Which means they’re coming here and are probably going to destroy us all. I must have the weirdest look on my face because Clarisse starts laughing.

“Relax, they already came. Yesterday. We won.”

Wait, what? How? Why? Clarisse has never exactly been the chattiest, but this is quiet even for her. And she loves bragging about battles. You have no idea. She once spent three hours reciting a blow-by-blow account of the final battle in _300_ and how she would have done better. For the record, that’s sixty-three minutes longer than the actual movie.

“Is that it? Are you really keeping a battle description to under ten seconds?” I ask. Was she abducted by aliens? Did something crush her spirit? Did Dementors suck out her soul?

She gives me that patented “Oh, come on” look that Ares kids do so well. It’s usually followed by a “I’m going to hurt you” look, but she skips that. Because I crushed her spirit. I left, and then I came back nuts. And I haven’t exactly proved my trustworthiness with anything.

Somehow, I keep forgetting that I’m a convicted traitor and should be dead.

“Maybe it wasn’t a very good battle,” she says softly, looking at the campfire circle.

“Clarisse—”

“Are you going to go back?” she asks.

The question sits between us like a gauntlet or a grenade or something. Am I going to go back to the Titans?

Honestly, I have no idea. I only started thinking rationally about an hour ago. Besides, I doubt I could make it to the border right now, much less to wherever the Titans are. And even if I did want to go, I have no idea where they would be.

I’m making excuses, I realize. I want to stay. Not for the gods or for the camp. For the girl who spent four months trying to piece me back together.

“No,” I say. It sounds so good, I say it again. “No, I think I’m going to stay.”

“Why?”

I want to do the same thing she did to me in the infirmary—lean over, kiss her dramatically, and ask “Any more stupid questions?”—but I keep forgetting that my muscles literally atrophied and I flail right off the bench and land in the dirt.

“Are you okay?” Clarisse asks, right back into concerned nurse mode.

Can I die from embarrassment? Can Gaia literally just swallow me right now? “I’m fine,” I manage, and I thank God that I’m dark enough that I don’t blush.

“Are you sure? You’re all red.”

Gods _dammit,_ I forgot I spent all summer inside. “Yeah, I’m okay. Can—can you help me up?”

As if my pride were not bruised enough, she easily picks me up with one hand and deposits me back on the bench. At least we’re a lot closer now.

We sit in awkward silence for a couple moments before Clarisse starts snickering. “You were going to steal my move, weren’t you?” she asks. “The lean-in, quick kiss, “Any more stupid questions” thing?”

If possible, I blush harder. “Yeah.”

She punches me on the shoulder, and I have to grab the side of the bench to avoid falling into the dirt again. Clarisse’s light punches are everybody else’s normal punches. “Don’t steal my move, Rodriguez,” she says.

I lean in and kiss her then, right on the lips. Okay, slightly off-center, but I’m counting it since I spent the last four months out of my mind. “Looks like I have to make up my own moves, then,” I say.

At this, Clarisse literally guffaws. She shoves me, and I fall right off the bench. “Well, it’s going to have to be better than that,” she says. “That was awful.”

Before I can even retort, she’s picked me off the ground and is dragging me to the arena. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you,” she says. “Let’s get to it.”

As I stumble behind her, I take stock of all my life choices that led me here. Is this really where I want to be? Who I want to be with? Was I crazy before, or am I now? Do I know what I’ve gotten myself into? Will Clarisse let me stop at the bathroom before we start?

Then I look at the six-foot-two girl in front of me, who’s still laughing at my piss-poor attempt at flirting. Is this really where I want to be?

Yeah. Yeah, it is.


End file.
